


My Grandfather's Cottage

by Oshun



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story of tragic heroes of the First Age, while they were young elves in love in Valinor, inexperienced and foolish. Ecthelion, a half-Telerin nerdy musician who fancies himself to be rather worldly and fashionable, sets himself the task of seducing his best friend Glorfindel, a charming math prodigy. The story provides a glimpse at contrasts between Telerin, Noldorin, and Vanyarin cultures, which turns wildly AU in relation to the inclusion of the festival of the Gates of Summer. It’s but a little romp of a love story about growing up spoiled and privileged in Aman during the Years of the Trees. <b>2011 Middle-earth Fanfiction Awards - First Place, Elves General, and Smaug's Treasure award.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	My Grandfather's Cottage

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [祖父的小屋 | My Grandfather's Cottage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5328326) by [LikeNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeNight/pseuds/LikeNight)



> It is highly unlikely that Glorfindel’s House of the Golden Flower existed in Valinor. Neither is it canon that Ecthelion is half-Telerin, half-Noldor. It is also invented out of the whole cloth that Glorfindel is related to Elenwë, much less her little brother. And, as mentioned in the summary, the Gates of Summer is almost certainly a festival solely belonging to Middle-earth and instituted after the appearance of the Sun. Accept my apologies for AU elements and casual handling of canon, please. It’s all fiction and fantasy.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
Elrond had only arrived in Valinor a week earlier, but the ancient letter he held in the inside pocket of his cape refused to allow him to neglect his self-appointed errand any longer.  
  
He let the knocker fall upon the heavy oak door. Framed by towering cypresses, the sandstone villa on the outskirts of Tirion featured a panoramic view of the wooded hills on one side and a cityscape on the other. A remarkably tall man answered the door. If one did not know better, one would have taken him for a Noldo run physically truer to type than any elf Elrond had known who did not date back to the First Age. He had the classic light eyes with raven black hair. His skin shone fair almost to translucency in the afternoon sunlight. He was slender with broad shoulders and had legs nearly as long as those of Maedhros.  
  
“Lord Ecthelion?” Elrond asked.  
  
“At your service,” the soft-spoken elf answered in barely accented Sindarin. “Please come in.” He bowed and gestured towards a sitting room adjoining the entryway. “I recognize you from a reception last week at the palace. You are Elrond son of Eärendil. I would have introduced myself, but you were surrounded by a crowd of old friends and well-wishers. How may I help you?”  
  
“It is a pleasure to meet you. I might not have recognized you. Although, you do look incredibly like a storybook illustration of a First Age hero.”  
  
Ecthelion grinned at Elrond. He might be impressive looking, but he apparently did not stand on formality. “And you could be my son or brother, but neither of us are pure Noldorin. I’m half Telerin and you are a truly colorful hybrid. But you did not come here to discuss our respective family trees, or did you?”  
  
“I have a document which I have been led to believe was written by you, shortly before the fall of Gondolin. It was salvaged from the ruins of your home in a last search for survivors. My grandmother passed it along to my father and it was one of the few items Elros and I took with us from the Havens of Sirion in a tiny bundle of clothing. I had no idea what it was at the time. It is sealed and bears your name along with the date of the night of the assault upon the city.”  
  
“Master Elrond, you have more restraint than I ever dreamed of having. And you a lore master as well.” Ecthelion demonstrated his impatience by ripping open the fragile wax seal that Elrond had carefully guarded for Age upon Age. The elf lord’s pale grey eyes lit up with humor and a youthful smile crossed his ageless face. “I do remember writing this. Come. Sit down. Let me call for drinks. I’d like to read it first, if you don’t mind. If it is not more graphic than I recall, I would be willing to share it. You certainly deserve to read it after taking care of it for all those years.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
**Gondolin, 510, Eve of Tarnin Austa**  
  
There are times when looking back one can marvel at how one’s entire life can change forever from a single ostensibly ordinary day to the next. I will never forget the day Glorfindel and I traveled from Tirion to my grandfather’s cottage just north of Alqualondë.  
  
Glorfindel and I had each been invited to celebrate the Gates of Summer festival in Valinor. I did not want to go to any of the elegant parties that would be held in Tirion that night. I was appalled at the idea of attending a stiff dinner party of several courses, followed by all too brief after-dinner festivities, only to spend the rest of the night in a silent vigil from midnight to dawn. My parents often complained that this particular custom was introduced to the Noldor after Finwë’s marriage to Indis. I am sure that must be true. It is not at all like the Noldor to desire to spend a holiday night mournfully reflecting upon one’s shortcomings or begging the Valar for a good harvest or whatever it is that one is supposed to do when one is not permitted to speak, dance, listen to music, or even have a drink.  
  
In any case, none of the multiple harvests enjoyed in Aman in the areas with warm and humid climates were ever poor. They were dependent upon the skill of the grangers rather than any magical intervention on the part of the Valar. In later years I would learn that the Gates of Summer ushered in milder weather in Middle-earth. In Valinor it simply served as a transition into two months, give or take a week or so, of widespread holidays and vacations. The season ended first in the countryside with the next and largest harvest. Holiday makers returned to the cities to the work of arts and craft, magic and science. After the holidays, the government offices would reopen, along with schools and institutions of trade and finance. The vacationers would take up their regular work again, with only a few days off here and there until the next Gates of Summer.  
  
My fantasy of the perfect way to spend the eve of the celebration, which I had indulged for several days leading up to the festival week, involved a slightly tipsy Glorfindel and me, alone with a bottle of wine, atop a hillside near Alqualondë overlooking the sea barely silvered by the distant light of Telperion. Under such circumstances and with a little luck on my part, I might have actually been able to summon the courage to reach out to Glorfindel. Instead, my plans involved staying in Tirion, where I feared the festival evening could turn into a working holiday for me.  
  
At that time, although officially still a student, I played frequently at the Tirion opera house in Maglor’s ongoing productions. The party I would have attended was the one to be held at the house of Prince Fingolfin, Maglor’s uncle. Maglor would not have even given a second thought to performing all evening and would have volunteered my services as well. Since Glorfindel was the youngest brother of Prince Turgon’s wife Elenwë, he also had been invited to the same feast. Glorfindel told me that if I was not enthusiastic about the festival customs for Gates of Summer as celebrated in Tirion, I would never survive the deadly somber observances at Ingwë’s palace on Taniquetil. He said that those could make Fingolfin’s dinner party feel orgiastic by comparison.  
  
“So, are you going to Fingolfin’s house on Gates of Summer eve?” I had asked him.  
  
“I can’t sit through it again this year,” Glorfindel said, grinning at me over the rim of a goblet of wine. “I want to be as far from Tirion and Taniquetil before that night as I can get. If I were you, I would go to Alqualondë for at least part of the holidays.”  
  
“We could both go to Alqualondë!” The idea immediately seemed like an excellent opportunity. I could not imagine why I have not suggested it earlier myself. “I do have to warn you, however, that Gates of Summer is not such a lavish production along the coast. No fancy food or fine wine, but there are fireworks on the beach at Alqualondë and at all the little villages up and down the coast. My grandfather has a cottage just to the north of the city. His village will have a clambake on the beach, with plenty of ale and sparkling cider, and they will have fireworks also. Not as grand as Alqualondë, but without the crowds and better swimming. The rest of the family will come up to the cottage later in the week. But we would have it to all ourselves for a couple of days before they arrive. If you don’t mind rustic simplicity . . .”  
  
“That sounds wonderful. I wasn’t fishing for an invitation, but I’d do it in an instant,” Glorfindel said, beaming with enthusiasm. “Are you sure none of your family would mind if you brought me?”  
  
I immediately began wondering whether or not to try to ride or make arrangements to take a coach. Glorfindel was a crap horseman back in those days. Scandalous really if one thought about his means and opportunity. His father kept a stable, complete with four carriage horses and four or five riding horses at any given time. His older brother was an equestrian on the level of Fingon.  
  
Glorfindel, however, had curtailed the riding lessons mandatory for all noblemen’s sons, preferring in his earlier youth to fiddle with mathematical conundrums and read. While the rest of us were playing music, riding and wrestling with one another, literally and figuratively, Glorfindel had gained a reputation, barely out of childhood, as a creative mathematician. He spent a great deal of time in the company of a fusty old professor, whose claim to fame in Tirion was that he had discovered Glorfindel. University types bitterly joked that my intelligent friend was ‘the toast of the Noldor and pride of the Vanyar and had barely come of age yet.’  
  
“You must be joking,” I said. Once I had it firmly in my head, there was no possibility that I would not take him to the shore with me that week. “Young Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, little brother of Princess Elenwë? They’ll adore you. And my grandfather is an amateur mathematician. He’ll talk your ear off.”  
  
He smiled shyly. “I’ve heard of your grandfather. He is the epitome of a respected amateur, knowledgeable and modest, willing to attempt to re-phrase the proofs of his theories to suit the crankiness of the most narrow-minded of professionals. It would be an honor to meet him. If you are sure I won’t be a bother? Tell me what the cottage is like.”  
  
I painted a pretty picture of my grandfather’s clean and well-maintained but somewhat clumsy cottage replete with all the romance of a pastoral love poem. Glorfindel had fallen in with my plan with the ease of an overripe plum dropping from its tree. We discussed the logistics of leaving the city in time to reach the seashore the day before the festival was to begin.  
  
We made good progress the first morning of our trip, but Glorfindel was visibly fading by early afternoon. I hated watching him shifting in misery on the horse from his father’s stable, even though he could not have asked for a more well-bred and well-trained mount.  
  
“You’re a complete fool,” I snapped. “I suggested that we take a coach. But, no! You insisted you were up for riding. There are three coaches that leave Tirion for Alqualondë every single day. Probably more during the week of the Gates of Summer.”  
  
That I noticed that Glorfindel was weary of riding did not justify the level of irritation the fact engendered in me and far less that I allowed my aggravation to become so apparent in my tone of voice. The truth was that I couldn’t bear the tight look of pain about Glorfindel’s eyes. To this day I cannot tolerate seeing him uncomfortable.  
  
I made up my mind at that moment that we were going to work on his horsemanship during the coming year. I had been successful with convincing him to take up fencing the previous year. When he had begun complaining of headaches and insomnia, caused by his long hours of pouring over his scribbled formulas, I provided him with evidence from healers and medics stating that exercise promoted health and improved concentration. The infuriating lad had shown an impressive talent with the blade.  
  
“I’m fine,” he answered laughing. “I know you like riding and would not have enjoyed the coach. I don’t ride often enough, but I will never become more comfortable if I get no practice. Don’t know why it bothers you so much that my arse is a little sore unless you had something in mind that you are not telling me.”  
  
I wanted to wring his neck. Sometimes I almost permitted myself to believe that he was teasing me consciously, although I generally ruled that out as unlikely.  
  
“Sorry. Let’s stop and rest for a while. You can stretch, go for a walk or even take a nap,” I said, lowering my voice into what I hoped was a conciliatory tone.  
  
“Maybe you could massage my backside and make it better.” Glorfindel had a smile that, in those days, even more easily overtook his face than it does now. The mixture of mischief and sweetness in the arrangement of his features, the crinkling around his light blue eyes, his teeth so very white contrasted against his golden skin, all of those elements combined to pull at my heart in a way that no one before or after him ever has. My frustration held me in an almost constant stasis between tenderness and annoyance.  
  
I had seen very little indication that Glorfindel was drawn to the same sex. In fact, there had been no salacious gossip about my beautiful friend involving either young men or women. He enjoyed an easy popularity among both sexes within the ranks of the privileged youngsters of Tirion. He was invited to all of the best parties and entertainments and took advantage of those invitations. He did not, however, have the reputation of being licentious or given to self-indulgent carousing.  
  
This time, he had gone too far in his taunting of me for me to ignore his words without saying something.  
  
“You think you are so clever. Actually, I could take your continual joking about the attraction of one man to another personally--as hurtful or even offensive.” I was known to have had a few love affairs with lads of our own age, although none since I had begun to spend so much time with Glorfindel. But surely he was aware of my preferences; there were few secrets within our circle of acquaintances.  
  
“Ehtelion! You must know I never intended . . . ”  
  
I interrupted him by snatching the waterskin out of his hand and stomping off in the direction of the gurgle of a nearby creek without looking back. “Why don’t you see what food is left in our packs?” I shouted behind me.  
  
My reasoning in wishing to bring Glorfindel with me to spend a week at grandfather’s cottage was twofold. Partially, I did in all honesty want him to learn to know me better and to see my family in its natural habitat. In moments of perversity, I also wanted to shock him. We had been raised in wildly different situations with different expectations from life and vastly varying standards of living.  
  
Of course, there was the matter of my grand seduction of him, but that was not yet at the front of my mind. That was a falling-asleep-at-night fantasy still, ever present but never considered in great detail, a primary motivation, but never admitted to as an actual project.  
  
My grandfather’s cottage was located well outside of the gated city of Alqualondë and slightly up the coast. The village remained nameless throughout the Years of the Trees until an Age or more after I left Aman. We simply referred to it as the North Village. It had the lazy pace and predictable habits common to most tiny Telerin coastal towns, with the shrimp boats leaving at dusk every evening and returning in the midmorning. A solid laboring class of fisher folk, sail makers and riggers, as well as one sizeable workshop of artisans who principally designed and crafted mastheads for the renowned swan ships comprised the majority of the Village's adult population. The other significant element of the residents consisted of a motley collection of scholars, musicians, artists, a subpart of which included families, like my own, of younger sons of half-Noldorin, half-Telerin gentry as well as other slightly disaffected elements separated from the mainstream of the Teleri and the Noldor. Like most of those in my immediate circle, I had never known want or hardship. I had attended school in Alqualondë and, along with many of my childhood friends, had family in Tirion as well and traveled to the big city during school holidays.  
  
I admit that I would have been considered privileged and not wholly unfamiliar with luxury, but one might say that I had experienced both at an arm's length, compared to better born nobles of the rank of Glorfindel.  
  
He had grown up in an elegant villa on the sides of Taniquetil. If you've ever traveled up the mountain road from Tirion, you will have seen the sort I'm referring to—constructed of sparkling white stone set against a backdrop of ancient pine trees, pristine and untouchable. Even the air seemed clearer and more refined, as remote from the strife and squalor of daily life as the farthest side of the world. No wonder Glorfindel always conveyed in his demeanor such a sense of self-contained placidity.  
  
To be perfectly honest, my frustration with what I viewed as his privileged background was no doubt at least partially based in my own frustrated sexual attraction as in any objective societal discrepancies between our backgrounds. When I looked for clues that he might share the youthful lust that was burning me up from the inside out, I was not quite sure what my observations indicated. I didn’t know if his self-control was remarkable or if he simply was not interested. Out of pride and insecurity, I was careful not to appear too eager. Who did I think I was falling in love with the gracious and beautiful Glorfindel, welcomed in courtly circles of the Vanyar and the Noldor alike? I had met him, in fact, through his relationship to both Maglor and Turgon, illustrious cousins from each side of the notorious intrafamilial squabbling among the Finwëans. Glorfindel settled in well with his Noldorin kin by marriage, assuming his own variety of personal diplomatic immunity. No one could find fault with him after all, with his pleasant and mild-mannered approach, slow to take sides and eager to broker personal attachments. His fair beauty alone would have made him welcomed, even if his personality had been more abrasive.  
  
My family on the other hand was far less illustrious in every conceivable way, mongrels of decent reputation, skilled and respected but not known for their ambition. My single claim to fame was that I was a more than moderately talented flautist. Fresh from the Conservatory of Music of Alqualondë I had been accepted as an apprentice in Maglor’s own company in Tirion. The stimulation of the larger city suited me well as did the enthusiasm of my colleagues. The young nobles and professionals of Tirion intermingled freely. When Glorfindel moved to Tirion and entered the scene, I was bound to encounter him.  
  
I’d discussed my infatuation with Glorfindel with a number of my acquaintances. The argument commonly made to me was that someone as personable and outgoing as Glorfindel who had already come of age and was thought to have remained a virgin probably either had a low sex drive or was overly influenced by the ideology of the most conservative of Vanyar. I did not believe the former was the case and I knew the latter was wrong as well. He fell into the category of the tolerant among the high society of Taniquetil. He was distantly related to Indis, who had questioned all the rules of her people and the Valar to seek to marry Finwë. His older sister had married Turgon, son of Fingolfin, one of the younger generation of Noldorin royalty, whose exploits and personal foibles were far too widely gossiped about for them to be considered entirely respectable by the more socially conservative of the Vanyar.  
  
During a few instances when we had found ourselves alone together after a long evening of company, wine and song, I had been sure that I discerned some glimmer of attraction to me on Glorfindel’s part. Once I had felt he was within seconds of kissing me, when we had been interrupted. I was not in those days a patient person, but as I noted vain enough not to want to suffer an outright rejection by him.  
  
I respected my friendship with Glorfindel. More accurately, I sought to guard it against any foolish misjudgment on my part. I would not gamble revealing myself to him, and perhaps discover that he did indeed return my carnal interest, if the cost of failure was the possible loss of his companionship. I was in love with Glorfindel and had no idea how he felt about me other than that he enjoyed my companionship and trusted me with other confidences, never speaking of his affective life.  
  
We had been inseparable for more than two years by the time I had invited him to travel to the coast with me. I knew that he, as attractive and talented as he was, could be expected to make a brilliant match with some lovely well-born Vanyarin or Noldorin maid. Even in the unlikely instance that he might have felt more attracted to men, he still might be expected to follow the custom of the Vanyar of marrying an appropriate young woman. I consoled myself with the thought that since he was the youngest of three children, it could be that his parents would not be in any great hurry to insist that he settle down.  
  
When I came back from filling our waterskins, I found Glorfindel fiddling around with his saddle, buckling and unbuckling various straps with the intent of shifting the positions of pieces of hardware which might have rubbed against him as he rode. He glanced towards me apologetically.  
  
“I’m really sorry. I think the problem is at least partially the saddle itself. It feels as hard as wood. My rear end feels bruised. Would you mind terribly looking at it? I might consider trying to find some way to pad it a bit.”  
  
“You’re serious?” I asked him. “You really do want me to look at your arse?”  
  
His face flushed a fiery red and his eyes narrowed. “Actually I meant for you to examine the saddle. But I wouldn’t consider it unreasonable to ask you to look at my hind end as well. There are people who have told me I have a very nice arse. But if the entire concept is absolutely repugnant to you, then I will just have to wait . . .”  
  
“Hardly repugnant, Laurefindil!” I said, my voice rough with restrained frustration. “You really have no idea do you?”  
  
Glorfindel’s face turned redder still, although that was hard to imagine, and his lower lip trembled, his hands shook on the strap he had been fumbling with before he dropped it and stepped away from the horse. The animal blew and shook his handsome head, large equine eyes focusing on me as though I had lost my mind. Even a horse he barely knew seemed to have instinctively taken Glorfindel’s side. I might have laughed at the ridiculousness of my reactions, my anthropomorphizing of the hapless horse, if I had not been so upset with Glorfindel. I shook my head to clear it, feeling I must resemble the horse just a little.  
  
“You, Ecthelion, are the one who has no fucking idea,” he said. His voice had fallen dangerously low. “I notice how you watch me, that you want me, but reject out of hand the concept of so much as touching me. I have been trying to figure out for years now why the idea of acting on your interest is so completely repulsive to you.” He stuck his hand out in my direction in an abrupt movement and I involuntarily flinched. “Give me one of the water skins, please,” he demanded. “I’m thirsty.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” I said, the inadequacy of my words hitting me like a bucket of cold water in my face.  
  
“Forget it.”  
  
“I do want you. I was afraid you would turn me down.”  
  
“Likely story. When I first mentioned to some of the fellows at the conservatory that I wondered how you would react if I approached you.” He did not hold back a mocking little smile. “They said that you were easy. Then, although you’ve always seemed to like me well enough, you have never shown the slightest inclination to take it any further.” He tossed his glossy golden hair and stuck out that pouting lower lip again.  
  
I moved quickly that time, kissing him before he could say another word.  
  
We rested until mid-afternoon. I found that his saddle was as hard as a rock. I was able to put together a makeshift saddle pad from a couple of pieces of sheep skin I had tucked into one of the packs, thinking they might be useful for sitting on the hard ground. His pretty bum was not bruised nor were there any dangerous spots of redness or tenderness, although I did not for a moment doubt the discomfort he had complained of earlier. He had exercised the practical sense to have brought some ointment with him from the store of his brother the equestrian and I applied it with remarkable restraint.  
  
We then naturally spent our time kissing and exploring above the waist, until crazy with excitement we brought ourselves off with mutual hand jobs. My giddiness at finally having the freedom to touch and kiss him at will left me panting and breathless while Glorfindel delighted with how much he pleased me.  
  
We rode several hours from late afternoon until well past the blooming of the silver light of Telperion. We had already traveled far enough from Valinor that the light of Laurelin had lost some of its intensity and Telperion’s gentler glow left us in a misty half darkness to eat and prepare to rest. After our simple dinner, we put together a single bedroll under the trees and among some scattered bushes, away from the rocky clearing where we had built our small fire. We slept that night, blissful and grateful in one another’s arms on a ground cushiony with the mulch of generations of fallen leaves.  
  
The unspoken agreement between us was that we need not rush to push our new intimacy to its furthest extent. The pressure of his erection against my thigh, the soft, firm tug of his hand, the delectable sensation of biting down on his full lower lip, those things and other intimacies were marvelous and remarkable in and of themselves. No more was necessary for the moment. We had come so far already, crossed a veritable ocean after waiting much too long. The rest would follow naturally.  
  
We slept well into the light of Laurelin the following morning. After a bath in the creek that was little more than a quick splash in the fast-moving icy water, I loaned some padded undergarments to Glorfindel. We made good time that day and by late afternoon could smell the ocean. The salty taste on our lips gave us the impulse we needed to push the rest of the way through to the village before stopping for the evening.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
“There is the village,” I announced unnecessarily. “My grandfather’s cottage is at the far end, set a little apart from the rest. It’s right next to the Dragon’s Tooth.”  
  
“What is the Dragon’s Tooth?” He laughed at me, while lifting a golden eyebrow quizzically.  
  
“You’ll see soon enough,” I teased. “It’s quite a sight. I’ll tell you the stories the old wives of the village use to frighten naughty boys.”  
  
“This village is amazing,” Glorfindel said. Quaint is more the word I would still use to describe it. But, through his eyes, it took on a charm that matched if not surpassed the images I had used to woo him there. The remaining light of Laurelin illuminated a narrow cobblestone street. One could nearly touch the houses on both sides while still on horseback. None of the buildings reached more than one or two stories in height. The stucco houses in shades varying from stark white to faded grey had all been trimmed in blue. An occasional poppy red or fuchsia fall of bougainvillea tumbled down a wall.

  


  
  
The cottage nestled on the side of a sloping hill just above the grass line at the edge of the beach. Its stuccoed walls, freshly whitewashed, gleamed in contrast to the bright blue trim. To the side of the small house, a sharp spire of a rock jutted out of the top of the rounded hill. The beach stretched as far as we could see on both sides, broken only by a small dock in a tiny inlet where a modest fleet of shrimp boats bobbed in the water along side the occasional pleasure craft. There were no helms of elegant swan heads to be found in this rustic harbor.  
  
“It does look like the incisor of a giant beast,” Glorfindel said laughing. “What is a dragon, anyway?”  
  
“It’s a mythical reptile which breathes fire and feeds on whole sheep and wicked little boys, of course.”  
  
“How hideous. Sounds like something the Dark Vala would create just to provoke his brethren.”  
  
“Don’t speak of him here. Villagers are notoriously superstitious. Talking of him supposedly weakens the chains that bind him.”  
  
“Ah. Then they won’t be pleased to hear the rumors floating about on the Hill which claim that he has been rehabilitated and will be soon released.”  
  
“I really did not need to hear that today!” I grumbled “We’re supposed to be on holiday.”  
  
Glorfindel reached out and ruffled my hair, a precarious and bold maneuver for one with a sense of balance on a horse as tenuous as his own. “You are as superstitious as the most backward of your fellow villagers. Show me the house. It looks cozy and comfortable from here. Like something out of a children’s tale.”  
  
“I love it,” I admitted. “It’s no more elaborate on the inside than it appears from here. But it is the repository of memories of a happy childhood. Oh! It does have running water. My grandfather is a true Noldo!”  
  
I swung off my horse, showing off just a little. His warm-blooded, laconic mount tolerated me hauling Glorfindel off his back. I wrapped my arms around him and held him against me, kissing him until he broke away breathing hard.  
  
“This is perfect. We are perfect,” he whispered. “I knew we would be.”  
  
We left the horses for the moment tied to the hitching rail—the water trough in front of it had been filled—while I showed Glorfindel about the cottage. Clearly my grandparents had received the message that I would be arriving. Someone had filled the larder with basic supplies and the ice box contained a pitcher of milk, butter and some eggs. Gratitude overcame me, leaving me feeling like a much loved and indulged child, that someone, probably my grandmother, had traveled all the way from Alqualondë to stock the house.  
  
A fire had been laid in the common room, but not lit. I stopped to light a few lamps to give Glorfindel a better look at the shadowy interior. The room immediately came to life. The homely comfort of the rounded walls, home woven fabric in rich earthy colors of reds, browns and greens and the filtered golden light loosened a place inside my chest that I had not realized had been constricted. I looked at Glorfindel, who reached to take my hand.

  


  
  
“I know we are going to be very happy here,” he said. “Where will we sleep?”  
  
I was little more than an adolescent horror in those days, who as often as not sought to cut through honest sentiment with childish pranks. “My room is at the top of the stairs and the end of the hall. You have your choice of either of the two bedrooms on the ground floor or the other one upstairs.”  
  
Glorfindel tackled me and wrestled me onto the sofa, tickling me until I nearly wet myself. “Do you realize how lucky you are that I have decided to sleep with you?” he asked, while he laughed and I shrieked for him to stop torturing me.  
  
All of that horseplay led to the inevitable conclusion. The divan was too narrow for both of us and we ended up on the stone floor, half on, half off the small carpet there. We were heart wrenchingly young in the first glow of physical intimacy. Glorfindel at last sighed, “I can’t stop smiling.”  
  
“Don’t. Please don’t. You cannot begin to imagine what your smile does to me.”  
  
His cheek flushed warm under my touch. He was lovely, pink and gold, smelling of sun-warmed skin and sex, all endless coltish legs and graceful, clever hands. His light blue eyes, tender and accepting, held mine while his lips parted slightly, as though willing me to kiss him. I paused considering my good fortune for a moment before he licked his bottom lip and grinned. Any hesitation became impossible. I grabbed him, kissing him wildly and he surprisingly chuckled. We rutted more frantically against one another, exchanging hard and desperate kisses.  
  
Finally, Glorfindel pushed me carefully off him and onto my back, stroking my hair out of my eyes, away from my forehead and thumbing my lower lip. With an attitude of utterly self-confident entitlement, he said, “Not bad at all for our first couple of times together, I suppose. But I really had the impression that you were more experienced.”  
  
“What _are_ you talking about?” I demanded, sounding as hurt and offended as I felt.  
  
He stuck his lip out in the pretense of a pout. “Don’t play all innocent with me,” he said. “You must know that you have the reputation of being quite the libertine.” He smiled again, lazy, seductive and possessive. “Remember that I waited for the longest time to see if you would make a pass at me, all of the while not certain that you would ever be interested. I was right to wait though, wasn’t I? You do want me, don’t you?”  
  
“I’m crazy for you,” I choked.  
  
“Don’t worry. It’s all right really, beautiful Ecthelion. We will work together on it. I know we’ll do better next time.” Then he gave out a snorting sort of giggle. “Aww! Don’t look like that. I’m putting you on, of course! I’ve never felt anything like the way you make me feel.”  
  
I rolled him over again onto his back and straddled him. “You really had me going you little wanker!”  
  
“Admit that you love me,” he crowed.  
  
“I love you with all my heart, Laurefindil,” I said. “I don’t mind how homely you are or who knows either.”  
  
That was a world and a lifetime away from where we are now, here in Gondolin. But that evening came to my mind, because it is the Gates of Summer celebration again.  
  
I have only a little paperwork to finish here, then I’ll meet him for dinner at the palace of Turgon. We will then return to my house, the House of the Lord of the Fountain. I’ve achieved a certain status here that I never could have reached in Tirion or Alqualondë. It has been a harsh, dark period and is not likely to get better. The forces of Gondolin were lucky in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Our losses were minimal compared to our brothers in arms. But the cost to our people and our allies have been incalculable.  
  
Yet Glorfindel and I have one another still and that should not be underestimated. Older and feeling pensive this year, we plan to sit the vigil together. I’m certain we will make love after breaking fast and then sleep until well past noon, before we must host a luncheon at the House of the Golden Flower.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ecthelion lowered the letter and shot Elrond a mischievous half smile, while unashamedly wiping a single tear from his cheek.

“By all the gods, we were young! Even at the end! But at the beginning . . . ” He shook his head with a silent chuckle.

Just then Elrond heard the click of a door opening in the adjacent hallway.

“Laurefin? Is that you?” Ecthelion called out. “Come here now! You are not going to believe what Master Elrond has brought us.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Slashy Valentine story that I wrote for Levade. She inspired it truly. I think I fulfilled, kicking and screaming all the way, every aspect of her prompts. As is usual for me with such things, she almost certainly knew better than I did.
> 
> This is a double gift to Pandemonium as well who just had a birthday and graciously loaned me elements of her characterization of Glorfindel from her own story cycle.
> 
> Thanks to my two dutiful Betas, Lilithlessfair and Ignoblebard. I cannot thank them properly. I really felt rusty and distracted and they really give me the will to go forward. Lilith also, spotted weaknesses that I sort of noticed and might have left without her proding. Thank you both again so much.
> 
>  **The request:** Ecthelion/Glorfindel: Can be an AU, set anywhere but Gondolin, please. Not your typical jocks/warriors or angsty lovers. Witty banter, snark, comfort, equals in all things. Please include elements: a dragon's sharp tooth and a letter, long-lost.


End file.
